


Story threads and prompts

by extentia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:43:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extentia/pseuds/extentia
Summary: I have completely abandoned all of these but they are still really good ideas. Take them, edit them, write with them. Take or don't take any part of these. I'd love to see some of these written. Warning some is dark.





	1. Void, a collection of moments

_locked in a cage and left to die. someone was there before. you get to watch them starve to death._

Nobody comes for you or for them. Your cells are separated but connected thru a tub of water you both share, only. They probably die in it and contaminate the water. You’re begging, screaming, get the fuck away from the tub get away get the fuck away from it – but they can’t do much but collapse forward, so weak – so very weak. And the whole time days pass nobody comes – repeated turmoil in the struggle. Is isolation the prize? Is it supposed to be mental torture? More importantly, where is the torture? After awhile you would rather be tortured than – than… this. Shit now there’s a dead body in your only source of water and you can’t do anything about it. After awhile you have no choice but to drink it. You’re so hungry, after all. How traumatizing.

  
 _"her hair is so soft. is hair supposed to be that soft?" you touch your own hair in question before becoming embarrassed._  
  
In therapy, afterwards. PTSD lowkey, probably. Short, sweet, complete picturesque session. A chaise lounge, soft lighting, a huge open window – too many fucking potted plants. Derek picks you up, brings you back to his loft. Lydia is there. Because why not. And Peter. Cue that eating disordered behavior. Large tomes all over the glass coffee table, black, plush leather couches. Everybody is talking and laughing and it’s too much. You escape to the kitchen, start the water in the kettle. It’s red. The walls are blackened wood. Does it remind them of the fire like it reminds you? Why would they do that to themselves? You lean in, smell it. It just smells like plastic. You knock on it – is it really would? Turns out – no. Peter pops up behind your shoulders, lays a hand on your arm – so softly in retrospect – but fuck you freak the shit out and realize there’s nothing you can really do to protect yourself. Well… even if you can’t eat you can for sure make a resolution. You’re going to get strong all on your own.

  
 _He was here to learn how to fight. To become less of a reliability. To be part of the pack._  
So you spend a few weeks exercising and lifting weight and cardio and shit. It’s harder than you think it should be but you’re not willing to eat more. So. You know, catch 22. But you think it’s working. You have some more muscle definition at least. You think. Whatever. Sun, sweat. The leaves changing color and toiling to return to dirt. Blood red wine. Rolling in the rich earth. Why? Why the fuck not? Honestly why the fuck not? There’s nothing for you but the cold bite of the air in the changing seasons, anyway. It’s poetic. It’s enriching.

  
 _Death of an ally is a particularly effective team-builder._  
  
Derek is abducted in the middle of the night and killed. He ends up in that same damn prison – no, his body. The corpse. It’s all there. Fuck. Vomit in the back of your throat that won’t dare escape. Peter’s livid. The veins in his neck protruding, fists clenched, eyes supernaturally blue. Back to the books. Lydia, flame haired, set determination. Derek’s loft is haunted. The tea kettle. Another hand on his arm – this time it’s Lydia, asking, “Is there enough water for two?” Turns out Peter left in a flurry – you get a pulse in your chest, heaving inwards, wondering, will he be the next to die? Why did he go out alone? Fucking idiot. Lydia pours almond milk over her tea, and then into your glass. You let her. Because you need brain power. You need calories. You both fall asleep on the couch, Peter returns with the bang of the loft door and wanders further into the apartment. Lydia is still asleep. How can she sleep through that? How can anybody? But Derek’s sleeping through it. Peter didn’t even look your way. Your hand trails along all of the walls as you make your way to him. He’s laying in Derek’s bed. It’s pitch-black, the wind wanders in languidly from the windows overhead. It’s warm, and unexpected, when it’s supposed to be frigid outside with winter’s coming. You ask, “Where did you go?” He evades the question, just rolls over. He’s sniffing, probably. He’s smelling whatever’s left of Derek. He’s also diluting the scent that could have stayed if he didn’t lay there.

The rest of the lines I was using with this mood were going to be

_It was your own failure that did you in, not someone’s offense  
_

_Killing a good man vs Killing a bad man_

_Half-gods are worshipped in wine and flowers. Real gods require blood.  
_

_Dragging every one down with you because you can’t bear suffering alone.  
_


	2. Chris Argent

The Argents are a nomadic family. They're never anywhere they can call home without the word sticking in their throats before they make their way out of their mouths. Chris doesn't think he could call anywhere with his family home, not in a million years. He almost wishes for a two-story house and a picket fence.

One of his history teachers, in one of the many high schools he's attended, said the American Dream was exactly that. But he is an Argent. He'd learn to desire something else. He doesn't have unlimited options.

If he was going to be honest with himself, Chris didn't even want to make friends with the people at the schools he attended. He has nothing is common with them. He'd throw out lines for people, sometimes, just to figure out if they were active. You can't exactly go up to anybody and ask them if they want to spar- or shoot- or train. He will have plenty of other hunters to be social with, once he's out of school. Gerard told him.

So, Chris isn't tired of moving around. He's tired of packing, only to re-pack just a short time later. He's a little tired of not having the same opportunities as his peers, like playing sports or having girlfriends. But he's not tired of moving on. Once the job Gerard brought them for is finished, there isn't a reason to stay, anyway.

So he is a nomad, strangely adjusted to life that bordered actual society.

This fic was going to feature Peter/Chris and deal with Gerard being all abusive. I'd never write a happy ending to this one, but you could :)


	3. Scott is EVIL?

_Scott turns out to be evil all along._

_When Stiles finds out, he tries to do something about it and Scott frames him for a crime. The thing is, it’s totally possible that Stiles could have done it, because Stiles has been hiding something from everyone but Scott for a long, long time._

_And the thing is, nobody believes he didn’t do it. Nobody will even entertain that Scott did it, Scott killed the guy! And Stiles remembers reading somewhere that guilty would explain how they could have done a crime better to draw suspicion off themselves. He doesn’t want to seem guilty, but god damn it, he wouldn’t have left a body out in the open like that. He wouldn’t have gotten caught._

_Stiles didn’t know what Scott expected of his pack, but he’s unceremoniously kicked out, and promised with Death if he ever dared do anything like that again. Stiles is panicking – because it’s been a week since then, and Scott hasn’t made a move. He can’t understand why. If he framed him once? Why not again?_

_He calls Chris in a panic, because he doesn’t know any other hunters, and there is no way Scott is going to let him live when he still knows what Scott is planning to do to Peter. Chris advises him to stay put until he can get back into town. Stiles… doesn’t._

Stiles has been compiling lists in his spare time. It’s the summer, and there really is nothing to do. He’s got this itching feeling again – the same one he gets every couple of months when something’s about to go wrong in a really big way.

  
It’s the same feeling he always tells Scott about, because Scott knows that his feelings aren’t just feelings. They’re omens, or psychic-predictions, or intuition on crack, or something. But they’re never wrong, not really. Sometimes he misses some stuff, sure, or like, anticipates the wrong thing. But he’s not… wrong… really… Which makes Scott’s wary dismissal of him so frustrating.

  
So he’s compiling lists. He’s got lists of new people in town, lists of people who’ve left recently, lists of people the pack’s already come up against, lists of people he thinks could want revenge, lists of upcoming significant dates, like when the planets pass overhead or go into retrograde, and the holy days from like 10 different religions. He has no idea what he’s looking for. He has no idea if any of it is helping because he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. But, it’s something to do, and it’s eventually gonna lead to something. Probably. Or not. Anyway. He’s not gonna stop.

  
“Uh, Stiles?” Scott raises a brow. “Isn’t this a little… much?”

  
Stiles looks up from his laptop and looks around his room objectively. He’s a pile of paper covering his desk, books flipped open and upside down on the tops of his dressers and the floor. He’s got his police board filled with random bits and pieces that he thinks are connected, but maybe not relevant yet.

  
“I mean?” Stiles grimaces a little. “Yeah, probably. But there’s something going on and I don’t know what it is. So. Therefore, this -”

  
He makes a wide sweep of his hand. “Is completely necessary!”

  
Scott shrugs and looks away from Stiles’ walls, like it’s a non-issue. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s anticipating something that sucks, but isn’t Darach-Sacrificing-12-Fold-Knot type of bad.

  
“Anyway, you wanna watch TV? I brought Star Trek.” Scott holds the DVD’s up with a teasing grin.

  
“Star… Trek?” Stiles says disbelievingly.

  
“Star Trek!” Scott confirms, grabbing Stiles’ hands and extracting him from the cocoon on his bed. And, again, it’s not like Stiles has anything better to do.

A few weeks pass. When nothing sinister begins looming on the horizon, he starts to consider cleaning up the mess of open-ended research he’s kept in place for a disaster scenario, Stiles lets himself relax. It was pretty much the worst thing he could have done, because everything sets into motion with his steady heart-rate mocking him from his place in his bed. 


	4. Steter (soft)

Pack night was a bust. Scott told him it would never work out. But Scott’s endlessly dramatic and he doesn’t really like either Hale very much, so his opinion was totally biased. Scott’s not always right. Except, he kind of was right this time. But he’s not always right, so Stiles is going to totally try again.

  
“Peter.” Stiles knocks on the apartment door. “Peeeeter. Peter.”

  
Peter opens the door with a long-suffering sigh. “I see you’ve found your way here uninvited.”

  
“Oh, for sure. Uninvited, unannounced, and totally unsolicited. But I have a problem and you probably have the answer.”

  
A long second passes before Peter moves out of the doorway and allows him inside. The front room is all white, the furniture is in various shades of blue.

  
“Chic.” Stiles comments, running his hands over the dresser near the door.

  
Peter has magazines strewn over a coffee table, painting hanging up on the walls, and decorative pillows on every surface available. Peter watches Stiles walk around the room, spreading his scent on every surface available.

  
“Can I get you anything? Water? Some restraint?” Peter offers. Stiles fingers his hands over the back of Peter’s sofa before he finally sits down and stops touching all of Peter’s stuff.

  
“Restraint? That’s rich.” Stiles scoffs and throws his arm in a dismissive gesture. “Really rich, considering you couldn’t restrain yourself enough to not ruin my pack night!”

  
Peter scoffs back at him. “I claim no responsibility for the monstrosity of your idea. Pack night, sure. Who do you want to be the headlining act? Scott?”

  
“That’s not – “ Stiles begins, but Peter cuts him off.

  
“Or perhaps, given how determined you are, you could just tell Scott to tone down that righteous anger that’s simmering so close to the surface. God help us if it boils over – with morality like that…” Peter makes a face.

  
“I sincerely hope you didn’t come here just to file a complaint. You’ll be sorely disappointed, I’m afraid.”

  
“Look!” Stiles allows. “I know that it’s not just your fault.”

  
Peter looks smug for a moment, but Stiles continues. “But it’s still your fault. Can’t you just play nice for one night a week? You should know all about how important pack bonding is! And all the books I’ve read say the same thing, so it’s pretty unanimous. Bonding. Very important.”

  
When Peter doesn’t say anything, Stiles (...AN: and that is all I have for this lol)


End file.
